


Five times Aziraphale projects like fuck and one time he doesn’t have to by Fallout Boy

by olly_octopus



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5+1, Aziraphale has the big gay for Crowley, First Kiss, Fluff, Humour, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, its the bitterness you see, its v cute and v funny and I’m a huge narcissist so I should know, my fuckin thing reset so I’m having to type these out again, no one in this fic is stupid except Aziraphale bless him, no shit right, sorry if I seem bitter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 13:34:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19296802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olly_octopus/pseuds/olly_octopus
Summary: Aziraphale has a dreamy, faraway look on his face, and he only comes back into himself when Shadwell coughs, seeming embarrassed.“And ye think that will work? Me tellin’ her?”“Well, um, it’s what I’d do.”“You sound like ye have someone in mind? Not that Crowley fella, is it?”Aziraphale chokes on nothing. “Wh— no! No! Definitely not! What a conclusion to come to from that, oh, oh goodness…”***Or, Aziraphale isn’t slick and Crowley isn’t as stupid as he looks.





	Five times Aziraphale projects like fuck and one time he doesn’t have to by Fallout Boy

**Author's Note:**

> in this house we stan Michael sheen and do wot we like

-1-

As far as creativity and grand romantic gestures go, Newt Pulsifer has about as much potential and artistic capabilities as a celibate Neanderthal.

So, when he decides it’s really For The Best that he takes Anathema on a big romantic weekend in celebration of their one year anniversary of dating, he decides (completely understandably, by the way) that the best course of action is to ask an angel— a being of love, mind you— vis à vis the best way to go about things. 

Should Newt be blamed for this decision? Of course not, he decides gloomily two hours into the Planning Session that has turned into Aziraphale Projects For As Long As Newt Will Allow Him To Talk.  
“Aziraphale,” he sighs, halfway through one of the angel’s rants. “That’s the seventh time in ten minutes that you’ve muttered it ‘obviously can’t be on holy grounds’.”  
“What? No, it isn’t,” mutters Aziraphale, dragging his eyes guiltily back to a hugely tired looking Newt. “I think you’re imagining things.”  
“I think you need to talk to Crowley,” says Newt. Aziraphale almost falls off his chair.

“Why? I don’t— that is, um, why should you think…? I just, uh, I think. Holy grounds and so on. Too many, um. Bad memories, and, uh, Anathema would prefer paganism? Perhaps?” He laughs, a little too high pitched and a little too loud. “Why should… haha… why should you think of, uh, heh, Crowley?”

He coughs.  
“Did. Um. Did Crowley say something? That I should want to talk to him about? Because I don’t see any other reason… I mean.”

For a moment, Newt considers taking Aziraphale’s hand gently in his own and allowing himself to talk slowly, rationally and sensibly to the angel in a way that would make him understand why Anathema utterly refuses to be in the same room as the celestial beings at the same time any more (because seeing auras is a bugger sometimes and the sheer emotional impact of being in a room with such strong emotions is too taxing), but he knows all too well that:  
1) it would change nothing and  
2) the maximum it would do would be to make everyone feel awkward and make Aziraphale blush even worse, if that were possible.

So, he doesn’t.

Instead, he stretches out his legs under the table, thinks miserably about how everything would be so much better if he was allowed to just hold one head in each hand and make them either talk to each other or start kissing, and gives Aziraphale a patient smile that he nervously returns.

It’s going to be a long day.

 

-2-

“I don’t understand it!” Shadwell marches angrily across the kitchen, not even looking at Aziraphale as he paces. “She does nae understand that, even though I’m a bit shite at the whole ‘ooh, lassie, ye are the love o’ my life and I never want tae be parted from ye’ business, I’d have thought she knew I felt that way! But no, she thinks— I dinnae know what she thinks— but she’s verra upset about the whole thing.”

“Have you ever told her,” reasons Aziraphale quietly from behind him, and Shadwell’s pacing falters for a second.  
“Am no good at it—“  
“No, you don’t have to wax poetry to her; but, um, have you ever told her you… care about her? That you want her around. Uh, anything other than name calling and tough love? It’s not that difficult.”

Shadwell opens his mouth, assuredly to rant some more, then closes it.

He looks pensive for a moment.

“What… what would ye suggest…?”  
Aziraphale’s nose and cheeks are dusted with a soft blush when he answers.  
“I… I suppose it’s all down to you, isn’t it? It’s your love, it’s your heart, it’s your words that she wants to hear, not mine.”  
“But where would I start?”  
“Start?” Aziraphale chuckles. “How does she make you feel? When it’s freezing cold outside, does she come and keep you warm? Make sure you have enough blankets? Does she know how you like your tea?”  
“Only I make my tea—“  
“Sergeant, it’s only suggestions.” Aziraphale thinks for a moment, and Shadwell stays dutifully silent. When he speaks again, the words are chosen carefully and deliberately and sound like something from an Oscar Wilde book.

“Does she face things she knows she would normally hate, but with you by her side she will carry out nevertheless? Is she willing to go wherever you do, even if it seems ridiculous or completely irrational at the time? Does she know your favourite foods? Books? Stories? And how does it make you feel that she does?”

Aziraphale has a dreamy, faraway look on his face, and he only comes back into himself when Shadwell coughs, seeming embarrassed.  
“And ye think that will work? Me tellin’ her?”  
“Well, um, it’s what I’d do.”  
“You sound like ye have someone in mind? Not that Crowley fella, is it?”  
Aziraphale chokes on nothing. “Wh— no! No! Definitely not! What a conclusion to come to from that, oh, oh goodness…”

Within five minutes he’s made his excuses, thanked Shadwell for the biscuits and escaped through the front door, leaving Shadwell semi amused with much food for thought.

Well, then. That’s certainly something.

 

-3-

Aziraphale can sense misery.

Not in the way that evil spirits and beasts can, oh no; it’s far more nuanced and delicate than that, and often has much better results.

In this case, the girl sitting on the bench with her head in her hands, tears falling like raindrops into her lap and shoulder length brown hair covering her face as she cries, initially doesn’t notice the stranger when he comes to sit beside her, lost in her own thoughts and pain. She doesn’t even know he’s there until he speaks.  
“It’s getting pretty cold out here, isn’t it?”  
The girl stares at him, eyes red and puffy. It hurts Aziraphale’s heart to see.  
“What… what do you want?”

Aziraphale hums softly and releases some of his energy into the chilly Autumn air, letting it dissipate into the atmosphere and make its way over to the girl. She seems to be soothed, just a little, and that’s all he needs,  
“Been there,” Aziraphale says quietly. “Done that, had the mandatory breakdown in a public place. Had, uh, many mandatory breakdowns in many public places.” 

The girl giggles through her sniffing, and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear with trembling fingers.  
“Been… fuckin. Used. Leah. God, she was gorgeous, though, wasn’t she?”  
Aziraphale searches in the air, then finds what he’s looking for. Leah has long, curly hair and is slim, down to earth and has an extremely cute nose— and the girl adored her. Images swirl around his head, kissing, playing video games, fighting, cruel laughter and finally a feeling of loneliness and terror that makes the angel inhale sharply. The girl just sniffles quietly.  
“I thought I loved her, you know. Thought she loved me. Thought she wanted to be with me forever, and then… she didn’t.”

They sit in subdued silence for a second before Aziraphale speaks again.

“It’s the fear that gets you most, isn’t it?”  
The girl nods, and the angel sighs.  
“The fear… the fear of not being good enough. Of being unlovable. That maybe you’re just around to be used, or that you need to change yourself in order for anyone to love you. And Leah? Leah was a bad experience. An awful experience. More of a lesson than anything else. But you can’t let her define you, and you can’t let your self loathing rule your life.”  
“Damn.” The girl murmurs. “Didn’t see that soapbox you brought along.”

Aziraphale smiles. “Never be afraid to forgive yourself. Sometimes, you need it.”  
“Maybe.” She gets to her feet. “Dunno if God will, but I can.”  
“That’s right!” The angel’s eyes sparkle. “If it means anything, I forgive you.”  
“Thank you.” The girl gives him a watery smile. “We’re all haunted by our demons, I suppose.” 

At which, to the girl’s surprise, Aziraphale gives a strange squeak and topples off the bench.

 

-4-

“Gosh, Azinafell,” mumbles Mr Young, staring helplessly out the window. “What on earth did I do to deserve this? It can’t have come to this, can it?”

Aziraphale, who has a half-idea of what Adam’s father is talking about, grimaces.  
“I’m extremely sorry, but you couldn’t tell me what the fight was about, could you?”  
“It was silly, it was so silly; I’d just said that I didn’t want a new room- what would we need a new room for? For goodness sake, where does she think we’d stay during the renovations? Her mother’s?” He shudders. “Definitely not.”  
“Have you…” Aziraphale coughs. “Have you asked her why she wants it?”  
“No, I didn’t think—“ then, he stops.

Aziraphale watches him tentatively as he seems to mull it over.

“Do you… do you think I should? Might be, uh, a good idea…”  
“I don’t think you can really get anywhere without communication. I remember, once, um, I was talking to someone. They wanted me to go somewhere, somewhere away… and I didn’t think I could ever do it, I thought it was stupid, childish, and…” he sighs. “Maybe if I’d listened. Talked it over, instead of letting them leave and just let them see why I couldn’t… maybe it would have been a whole lot easier. As it was, I thought I’d lost them.”  
Mr Young nods understandingly.  
“Being married has its complications, I suppose. I know arguments are all part and parcel of it, but…” he makes a face. “It can be hard. Do you and your husband argue, much? You two seem to have quite the idyllic lives.”

Aziraphale blushes, and shakes his head frantically.  
“Me- me and my husband? I, er, I don’t, um, I don’t have a husband… or a wife. W-why would you think…?”

Mr Young looks puzzled.  
“The man that you always visit with? Your husband? It’s just, you always seem to close, er, sort of domestic… and I’ve heard him call you angel, I just thought…”  
“No! I’m, uhh, we’re close friends, certainly. Husbands?” He laughs anxiously. “Not, uh, not husbands. Absolutely not. Chance would be a fine thing!” Aziraphale hopes that means what he thinks it means, but Mr Young’s face doesn’t give him much joy.

Long after Aziraphale’s gone and Mr Young has texted his wife with an apology and a plea to discuss their argument over dinner out somewhere, he’s still thinking bemusedly about those nice two men who he was sure definitely had something going on…

But then again, you can’t really tell these days.

 

-5-

Pepper, a well known feminist who is pretty sure she’s going to be asexual the second the hormones start kicking in, is Not looking forwards to the Talk that the local village school has decided they need.

Pepper’s teacher, who is even less happy about the whole thing, proposes she finds a Trusted Adult to talk to about the whole thing, suggesting that perhaps it might “soften the blow”. And so, Pepper decides that the best thing to do is go to Aziraphale— the most trusted and knowledgeable adult she knows— and ask him about the whole disgusting and sordid affair.

Needless to say, it doesn’t exactly go well.

“What’s a vulva,” says Pepper, loudly, the second she sees Aziraphale sitting nervously at her kitchen table, courtesy of Adam. Aziraphale, the poor sod, almost bursts into tears but, after seeming to struggle with himself, gives a weak smile and sets about answering all the questions he knows the answers to. (It’s not as many as Pepper would have hoped.)  
“You were around when God invented sex,” Pepper points out unhelpfully half an hour later, and Aziraphale just puts his head in his hands.  
“My dear, I didn’t help them.”  
“You’ve been around for over six millennia!”  
“Not making love! Just…”

Aziraphale sighs heavily, runs both hands distractedly through his golden curls.  
“Goodness gracious, the only things you need to be worrying about at your age, surely, is how to avoid male attention and how to be prepared for your period. The problem with trying to teach young children about sex is that there’s the danger of making them think it’s important to relationships and everyone should want it. Some people don't, only that never seems to get taught.”  
“Alright, then.”

Pepper gets to her feet, grabs a notebook from the counter, and returns to her seat. She flicks it open, and stares at Aziraphale with narrowed eyes.  
“Teach me how to say no, and how to make people believe it. Teach me about oversexualisation of young people in the media and how to stop it. Teach me about how sex should feel when it’s not purely for men’s satisfaction.”

This child, Aziraphale thinks, is going to be prime minister. And she is going to solve every world problem that exists, and some that don’t.

This man, Pepper thinks two hours later with a full notebook, is so over his goddamn head for Crowley that he even manages to fit him into conversations about how sex should feel. They’ve never had sex, for God’s sake. How on earth did he manage to jam him in there.

Also, she thinks as an afterthought, I want to be prime minister.

 

(+1)

“Angel~” Crowley sing-songs, seeing Aziraphale approach the bench. “Been talking about me, have you? Heard rumours. Funny rumours, at that.”

Aziraphale goes pink, and stops in his tracks before he can take a seat beside the demon. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
“Oh, that’s the game we’re playing, is it?”

Crowley kicks both feet up onto the bench, and swivels round so that he can quite comfortably face the angel whilst still maintaining the most enticing of poses. “Go on, then; where do you want me to start? With the wet paper towel of a man who can’t plan a date for love nor money and resorted to asking you, upon which you began talking about why it couldn’t be in a church? Shadwell, who asked you for tips on love confessions, and you started talking about Madame Tracy knowing his favourite books? Absolute fuck’s sake, angel, I don’t even think he can read! At least try to be subtle.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth, presumably to either protest or come up with some feeble excuse, but Crowley waves him down impatiently.  
“No. Shuddup. I’m not done.” He starts counting on his fingers. “So that’s one, two, and then three was some poor girl who’s been going around Adam’s village talking about a kind stranger who gave fantastic advice about not giving up on love and then who almost fainted when she mentioned demons? Wonder who that could be.” A fourth finger goes up.

“Adam’s father— real father, whose wife is pregnant and decided to let him know by suggesting they add a nursery to the house?”  
“She’s pregnant? Oh my goodness, gosh, that’s so—“  
“Not FINISHED. Anyway, so he asks who but ‘Adrian Dell’ about how to communicate with her, and Adrian begins blithering on about someone who wanted to go somewhere with him?” Crowley’s ears turn a little pink at the tips. “And who he, ‘thought he’d lost’?” 

A fifth finger, and Aziraphale can’t even look at him anymore.

“And… oh, Adam’s friend. What’s her face.”  
“Pepper,” the angel whispers, and Crowley sighs.  
“Pepper. On the tip of my tongue. Anyway, so now Pepper needs a birds and bees talk? And oh, what’s this? Who does she come to?” Crowley shifts up onto his elbows, and lets his head loll to one side so that he can properly look at Aziraphale like he’s an idiot.  
“Aziraphale? Who, oh, let me guess? Talks about the dangers of STIs, unwanted pregnancies, and oh!?”

Crowley sits up fully, and even goes so far as to lift his beloved dark glasses onto his head. “What’s this?? He’s also talking about the dangers of allowing demonic entities into one’s bed?? That it might, ‘attract the wrong attention from either side’??”

Aziraphale cringes away from Crowley’s tone, hands impulsively tugging on the sides of his jacket in a poor attempt to ground himself.  
“I… Crowley… I really don’t think...”  
Crowley slides off the bench, and comes so close to the angel that he can feel the warm tickle of his breath on his skin.  
“Angel. Please don’t insult my intelligence. Neither of us would want that.”  
“So, so what? Now what? Now that you know— what are you going to do?” Aziraphale feels tears prickling at the back of his eyes, and drops his eyes so that he doesn’t have to look at Crowley. “Going to leave, are you? Call off or friendship, the arrangement, everything? Because you know how I feel about you? Rather— rather childish, I’d have thought…” he sniffs.

There’s a responding sound from Crowley, somewhere in between a sigh and a groan of frustration. The next thing Aziraphale knows, cool fingers have snaked their way beneath the angel’s jaw and gently turned his head to face Crowley.  
“You have such little confidence in me, angel.” He pauses, allowing the space between them to condense into barely anything. Eventually, he speaks, and it sends shivers down Aziraphale’s body. “Can I kiss you?”

Kissing Crowley is like the first sip of hot chocolate when the window outside is frosted over with the Wintersmith’s delicate patterns and the bookshop feels like the safest and most loving atmosphere that has ever existed. It’s like the first spark that’ll fan into a flame, the first time the sun shone down onto Noah’s ark after the floods, and most importantly it’s all Crowley.

Aziraphale can project all he likes, but nothing will ever be Crowley.

And then they go for lunch, which is almost as good.

**Author's Note:**

> i was literally brought up on Terry Pratchett and i don’t mean to get all emotional on yall but im so happy to be part of such a sweet and fulfilling community with lots of fanservice, lots of amazing content and most importantly, validation 
> 
> so uhhhhhh comment my dudes thanks xx


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